


Considerable Grace

by nan00k



Series: Building Something New [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, oblivious!McCree, pining!Hanzo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7654129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nan00k/pseuds/nan00k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanzo grudgingly welcomes becoming a member of the recalled Overwatch as much as the friends of his brother grudgingly welcome him. But that cowboy. That cowboy is something else. (McHanzo)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Considerable Grace

**Author's Note:**

> I blame the Discourse™ on tumblr and vickjawn for the idea of McCree being the oblivious!one and Hanzo being the pinning!grump who just can’t get this flirting thing right. I don't know if I got the hang of writing either of them, so apologies in advance. ;-;
> 
> \----  
> Disclaimer: overwatch © blizzard. I just wrote this.  
> Warnings: m/m, McHanzo, minor swearing, Shimada brother feels  
> \---

 

“Friends,” Genji says, his hand curled warmly over Hanzo’s shoulder, “this is my brother.”

It takes several weeks of consideration, then several more of hunting his brother down, before Hanzo finds himself in the midst of illegal heroes in a hidden base on Gibraltar. He has only his bow, his arrows, and the clothes on his back.

The command is welcoming. Angela, the doctor who pieced his brother back into the mechanical chimera he was. Winston, a literal talking (and intimidatingly intelligent) gorilla. Reinhardt, their combat lead and intimidating only in body. Torbjörn, their engineer. They seem grateful for the additional arms and tell him they look forward to acclimating him to missions. There is a promise that yes, they will desperately need them in the days to come.

The others, though, they are less open-armed. Hanzo is politely introduced to them all and there is no hostility. There are smiles, tight lipped but present.

But they are wary of him. Hanzo does not blame them for it, nor is he confused over why. Genji, they know. He has been a teammate for some in years prior and he has been around longer with this new Overwatch long enough to make new alliances. 

None of them say anything, but he can feel it somewhere in their stares and frowns.  _ Brother killer.  _ A worse sort of murderer.

He intercepts the judgement with passivity and indifference. He is not there for them. He is there for a higher purpose. Perhaps for more than one. Genji is the only one he needs to make amends with. He will work with these people and join their (grudgingly, he admits) honorable goal of using his skills to prevent future global crises. 

He cannot begin to atone for his mistakes, but he takes Genji’s word that here, he can begin. A new beginning an almost amusing thought. He does not deserve it. He does not entirely want it. Genji accuses him of wallowing in the past; Hanzo just isn’t sure he has forgiven himself yet.

After a long day of updating him into the Overwatch list of agents, including acquiring codes and various other numbers he reluctantly agreed to memorize for future missions, Hanzo hopes to spend time with Genji, away from the others.

He is frustrated--and perhaps disappointed--when Genji informs him that he needs to speak with Angela about upgrades, in private. Hanzo is directed back to his dormitory, as if Hanzo knows where the dormitories are at all in the winding maze of the Watchpoint.

Genji cheekily points in one direction before heading back to medical. Hanzo sulks, but leaves. He does not expect to be coddled. He will take Genji’s lead. He decides that is the least stressful choice.

He is halfway down a winding hallway--an empty, cold hallway--when he hears the scraping of boots and metal on the floor behind him.

“Whoa there!” someone calls out.

Hanzo stops and turns, expecting to see one of the members of Overwatch coming toward him. He is greeted by a tall man in boots, leather pants, and a red blanket draped about his shoulders. His scruffy beard disappears up into his wild hair, tamed only by a brown hat that looks scuffed and marked.

The man is holding a cardboard box, which seems to be full of towels, soaps and perhaps spare clothing. Hanzo says nothing as the man holds it out in front of him like an offering.

“Here ya go, partner,” the man says, an American in more ways than one. “Welcome basket from the folks.”

He doesn’t recognize this one. This man is a walking caricature. He is an American Cowboy. It is absurd.

“What?” he manages, his voice rough as he stumbles over the shock.

The cowboy continues, chattering away. There is no uneasiness to his smile, like his companions had worn. Hanzo realizes that maybe he doesn’t know who Hanzo is.

“Genji mentioned you kinda hopped over here on the fly. Couldn’t imagine you’d have much to call your own, so we scraped together some spares,” the cowboy says. He gestures his head, hat and all, to their left. “This place ain’t up to par with what we use’ta have, but there’re showers right down that’a ways.”

Hanzo is muted by the confusion and the burgeoning sense of gratitude that he cannot contain. It is a numbing, sweeping sensation. It is alien under his skin, grating against the dragons, who recoil from the feelings unrelated to anger or violence.

His silence drags and he is too slow to realize it affects the American.

“Uh.” The cowboy suddenly balanced the box on one hand, his metal one, while he held up his other in some kind of appeasement. “Unless you wanna get your own stuff. No ‘ffense meant. We do make supply runs on occasion, so if y’need anything specific, yer welcome to tag along--

Hanzo tears his eyes away from the box and forces himself to interrupt.

“Thank you,” he says, words difficult to get out. He doesn’t know why. He refuses to let the discomfort stop him, regardless. “I appreciate this kindness.”

He extends his hands and takes the box lightly into his own hands. The man seems startled, but he recovers fast, his smile returning just as lightening quick.

“Of course! Welcome t’the team, an’ all that.” The man’s grin was blinding as he tipped the corner of his hat. “You need anything else, just holler, you hear?”

It is an open invitation. It is nothing more or less than what his companions had offered earlier, but in the same way, it is the friendliest gesture Hanzo had received in...many years. It is unneeded and unrequested, but it is there before him and Hanzo struggles to convince himself it is real.

Before the man turns, Hanzo bows, the box in hand.

“Shimada Hanzo,” he says.

The cowboy freezes and then slaps a hand on his face, groaning with just as much animation.

“Oh! Right, I’m a scatterbrain fool sometimes!” he says. “Name’s Jesse McCree. Nice to meet ya, Shimada-san.”

He bows, a perfect mimic, even with the English greeting. Hanzo is more surprised by what McCree calls him. He even knows how to speak properly, at least in a Japanese way. 

“Welcome to Overwatch,” McCree said. His sincerely is written into his face, his voice, and his enthusiasm.

Hanzo doesn’t say that he’s grateful or that he was happy to be there. He can’t find the words.

He nods instead, retreating to the silence.

If it bothers McCree, it doesn’t show. He tips his hat again and saunters off, at such incredibly ease in the space and his own actions. Hanzo watches and realizes then that he had not noticed the silver gun strapped to the man’s waist. 

Hanzo finds his dormitory, because the base’s AI unit left that one open. Another quiet kindness. It is stark and bare inside, with no signs of living. It is disheartening, for a moment, to find himself in such a small box of a room.

He does not wallow in self pity. He places the box down on the small desk and the gesture itself brings just a fraction of warmth.

**0000**

The practice rooms of the Watchpoint are open to all agents, he learns. He means to investigate them right away, but he is distracted by learning the environment of the base and debriefings with the commanders. There are battles to fight and he wishes to know their enemies. He has not tangled with Talon forces yet, but learning as much as he can about them seems prudent.

By the end of his first week, he finally finds the time to inspect the practice ranges. The base’s AI, Athena, directs him to the long distance range. He doesn’t bring his bow, because he only means to inspect what Overwatch offers. He isn’t surprised by the bright white room or the expansive space when he gets to the lower level range.

He’s more surprised to nearly run into a man right outside the practice room. Seemingly taller than before and still wearing that ridiculous hat, McCree greets him like an old friend.

“Hey, there, partner,” McCree says, smiling. “How’s it going?”

Hanzo almost can’t handle the stereotypes, in this man’s speech and appearance. He nods politely. “I am acclimating well.”

“Good t’hear!” McCree says. He quirks an eyebrow. “Haven’t see ya at dinner, though.”

The thought of spending time in a crowded room with that many people was discomforting. It was worse to imagine those people, the ones who avoid him and judge him in silence.

“I have been...busy,” Hanzo says, not quite a lie. It is far easier for his new schedule and for his nerves to eat after hours or in his room. Genji sometimes joins him, though the younger Shimada has little trouble enjoying the company of their teammates.

“If y’need anythin' or if y’feel like somethin’s the matter, just grab one of us. Everyone’s real friendly, promise.” McCree keeps talking as he takes out his gun and inspects the rounds in the chamber. “‘Course if you don’t like the crowds, I don’t blame ya. You’d think a base like this would equipped fer a whole crew, but I guess they weren’t thinking of accommodatin' guys like Torbjörn and Reinhardt all in one place.”

He speaks amicably, without reservations, about the others and makes jokes about how Winston just “wasn’t prepared” for all them at once. He sounds happy, as if the inconveniences presented were all part of something enjoyable. Hanzo listens and doesn’t say much.

Then, without warning, McCree gestures toward the large target practice range in front of them.

“You wanna take some time on the targets? Heard yer a bowman,” he says, both eyebrows going up, his grin ever present. “Can’t say I ever dabbled with it, but if yer any good as Genji, I’m sure it’d be a heck of a show.”

“You mean practice,” Hanzo says, blinking. Together.

“Sure! Let’s see who the quicker draw is, eh?”

He says it in that same friendly tone. There is nothing mocking nor insincere about the offer, at least not that Hanzo can decipher. McCree waits patiently, his words hanging between them, where Hazo can’t manage to really interact with them.

“I must decline,” Hanzo manages to say. Not today.

McCree tips his hat, at ease with his smile. “Anytime, then.” 

Hanzo watches him go and it takes him a full minute to rouse himself to leave the doorway.

He doesn’t mean to watch. But he does.

He doesn’t just watch on that day. He finds himself wandering through the back hallways of the base, leading up and around the practice area, and sometimes, he finds McCree at work. The man has only a single gun with minimal bullets, but yet Hanzo knows he is an infamous member of the original Overwatch. He is a killer, a soldier, and likely many other things. Hanzo would be a fool to consider the man inefficient in his role.

And he certainly is not inefficient with the gun, which Hanzo eventually learns McCree named Peacekeeper. 

It is a loud weapon, but whenever Hanzo finds himself settled in the eaves of the practice room, the crack of the gun does not ruin his quiet as much as he expects. He is more taken by the accuracy and quickness of McCree’s gunmanship. It is nothing compared to the swiftness or grace of the bow, but Hanzo cannot die there is some kind of beauty in the presentation.

His mistake is leaving nearly at the same time as McCree wraps up. He’s spotted, like a thief, and Hanzo in that moment prepares for some kind of mockery and verbal assault. Spying on teammates is not acceptable in any circumstances.

McCree, on his part, waves enthusiastically, urging Hanzo to climb down. Reluctantly, he does.

“Hey, Shimada-san!” he exclaims, a smile instead of an accusation at Hanzo’s questionable appearance and approach. “Change your mind?”

He has never suffered from an inability to meter his words, but it is the first time Hanzo feels himself fumble for the right ones.

“I need to leave,” he says, the words falling out without much control on his part.

Somehow, he realizes those were not the right ones.

McCree only smiles and nods. “I won’t keep ya. Don’t be a stranger now!”

He is a stranger. There is nothing in common between him and these people beside their team affiliation and his brother.

He waves and bounces off, back to the practice area. Hanzo doesn’t understand how relaxed the man is, wielding a gun or otherwise. Even if he didn’t know about Hanzo’s mistakes, why would he be so open?

It makes no sense.

Hanzo leaves the room and the area. He avoids it for the next several days.

**0000**

He spends most of his evenings with Genji. They drift away from the others after dinner--Genji more-so has to escape conversation than Hanzo, for obvious reasons. Genji introduces him to a place up over the complex network of buildings that make up the base. It is an excellent spot to sit in silence, which they often do, watching the drifting, setting sun.

Quiet conversation becomes less awkward with time. Hanzo relearns it slowly. He is determined not to waste the opportunity to know his brother again.

And yet, often lately, their small talks are not about themselves. Hanzo asks polite questions about the different members of the team. Oddly, it is often one of them in particular that prompts distant curiosity. 

“McCree-san has been with Overwatch for many years,” Genji says, without much prompt. They share a pot of tea they had made up in the kitchens. 

“Has he?” Hanzo asks, as he pours for both of them. Genji doesn’t drink it in front of him, but the meaning is in the gesture.

Genji turns his impassive visor toward him, eyeing him. “You’ve been watching him practice.”

Hanzo shrugs. “He is a good shot. No where near as skilled as some.”

“I imagine,” Genji says, still watching him.

The thought enters Hanzo’s mind suddenly.

“You knew him,” he says. Before. Before Overwatch’s first demise. 

It is not an accusation, but Genji is silent for a moment.

After a beat: “Yes.” Genji looks back toward the horizon. “He was one of my first friends made here.”

It is unsettling. Hanzo places the pot of hot water away from them. “I am surprised then.”

“By what?”

“He has shown considerable grace in speaking with me,” he says, deciding not to avoid the real answer.

“Ah.” Genji chuckles. The sound is mechanical and almost too painful to endure for Hanzo’s ears. “McCree-san is a good man. He is...different, than the others, in some ways.”

Hanzo doesn’t ask in what ways. The manner in which Genji said it spoke of something he should not pry into, not yet.

“But he is kind.” Genji leans out further into the air, at ease. He always is, speaking of his friends. “And he must understand the necessity of forgiveness.”

“Must he?” Hanzo asked, feeling that numbness return to his chest.

“He is different,” Genji says. 

A man who has fought different battles, Hanzo translates. A different breed of warrior than the rest.

“He speaks fondly of you during practice,” Genji abruptly says.

Hanzo...doesn’t know what that means. Or what to think about it.

“Does he?” he asks.

“He thinks your own skills are impressive,” Genji says. “Perhaps you should practice more together.”

“It is hardly a decent competition,” Hanzo mutters, raising his cup.

“Not much is competition next to your skills,  _ niisan _ ,” Genji says, so casually, so genuinely, it is a jolt to his heart.

Hanzo spills his tea all over his pants. Genji doesn’t comment on it. He just keeps watching the sun drift downwards. At peace with many things.

_ Brother _ .

Hanzo repeats the word over and over in his mind and the numbness becomes warm.

**0000**

The following morning, Hanzo appears at the door. His bow is slung over his shoulder, relaxed while the rest of his body is tense. He waits for McCree to notice him as he sets up the targets.

McCree is surprised for just a second before his eyes drift to the bow. His face lights up.

“Come on in!” he crows, motioning with energy before asking the AI to bring in more targets.

There is something intoxicating about finding equal footing with a fellow warrior. He isn’t a fan of the gun McCree uses, but the bravado and clean arrogance of a man who is confident with his skills is a soothing balm on Hanzo’s nerves. It’s the sort of companionship he has missed in his years running from the Shimada-gumi. It’s relaxing to aim up a target and hear a whoop of encouragement from someone who appreciates the art of a long distance shot.

Hanzo tells himself it will not be a frequent event, but as he lines up his shot a few meters down from the cowboy--who has already begun to spin the conversation forward with unfathomable speed--he cannot say it will never happen again.

**0000**

McCree is loud and boisterous. He is kind and respectful in ways that are shocking at times.

McCree is friendly.

Hanzo quickly learns, however, that he is friendly to  _ everyone _ .

They gain a new member, a young man from Brazil, who is bolder yet in his wardrobe and loudness. Hanzo attends the first meet-and-greet out of a sense of obligation. At first, he is somewhat relieved to not be the newest arrival. He is also marginally relieved that this man knows nothing about him or Genji. 

He offers a polite nod in greeting himself, but he is startled when he sees McCree step up and give the new agent, Lúcio, a clap on the back.

“Heard you like music, kid!” he says, all smiles. “You gotta put on a show at some point. Could use the entertainment.”

Lúcio, not bashful and shy in the least, laughs loudly. “Sure thing!”

McCree and Tracer both talk animatedly with Lúcio about what kind of music he plays. 

To the side, Hanzo is hit by an odd sensation. Alienation, for starters. He does not know how any of these people can just...get close. How they can greet a stranger with such openness.

Lúcio offers to show McCree his guitar and McCree seems truly happy to accept. 

Hanzo watches them and that odd sensation grows. Somewhere inside, the dragons shift in their slumber. A bad sign.

Jealousy is not an alien emotion. He despises it anyway. It is not dissimilar to when he spots Genji with Zenyatta, his so-called Master, or when his brother spends time with Angela in the medical bay. It is irrational and unnecessary, but Hanzo has never dealt with it before in his life. He doesn’t know how to manage it, except to acknowledge it and its uselessness.

It makes no sense to feel here and now.

He finds himself going to mealtimes. He had before Lúcio arrived, but now it’s a deliberate action. He tries to sit near McCree or Genji at those times. He thinks it’s an act of defense; he knows his brother has his back. For some reason, and he isn’t sure why, he feels confident of the same from McCree. The man has been kind and sincere since Hanzo arrived, so perhaps it was just the honesty of his offered companionship that convinces Hanzo to feel at ease.

Hanzo is less at ease when he listens to McCree fluently converse in all manners of conversation with the others. He makes jokes that make little sense to Hanzo, and he laughs at similar jokes from the others. He is clearly close to members like Tracer and Reinhardt. He is open with everyone, however, and that’s what irks Hanzo the most. 

He feels like a child. He realizes it’s foolish and he berates himself for it. He knows that it only looks worse, scowling into his plate in the middle of such conversations. He has no idea how to adjust his behavior except with patience and time. 

At the end of dinner, he is taken by surprise when McCree is suddenly right behind him. A hand falls onto Hanzo’s shoulder. It is not demeaning or a mockery of their height difference. Hanzo is still speechless at the touch.

“Glad you’re finally feelin' more comfortable, pal,” McCree says, quietly enough not to attract unnecessary attention but loudly enough to make it seem like he wanted Hanzo’s full attention. “It’s good to have you ‘round.”

Hanzo is off kilter, but manages a, “Yes,” before looking away. McCree laughs.

The hand on his shoulder is warm and large and it stirs the dragons, but not in the same way jealousy does. They are drawn toward an outside source of heat, serpentine and selfish.

He is not blind. He is not ignorant. He knows what he is feeling now.

The realization is only one of the worst parts.

**0000**

It is not the first mission they are sent on together, but it is the first where neither Talon nor Vashki forces are directly intercepting them. Instead of human bodies to wade through, there are omnics. Winston had received intel that several omnic splinter groups had been trying to release the god program Anubis from inside the Giza Plateau facility. Hanzo is eager to return to combat, even if the idea of a second omnicrisis is nightmarish from what he recalls from the first.

At first, he sees his presence has unneeded. With reluctant assistance by the Helix Security guards stationed at the base, they are able to take out most of the omnics within the hour. Only stragglers were left.

That doesn’t make it any less necessary to focus, Hanzo thinks to himself, and the advice is well-deserved. 

He takes out two omnics attempting to cross under him at one of the side entrances to the facility, but fails to see the third until it is firing on him. He dodges, but a wall to his right prevents easy escape. Climbing it is the only option, but he realizes in that moment the likelihood of escaping unscathed is unlikely.

Hanzo is stopped short of the wall when suddenly, the firing omnic is struck twice in the head, sending it flying off the overhang. Hanzo looks to the ground and sees a familiar cowboy hat. McCree grins and waves up at him.

Over the comms, they receive an all clear. The mission is a success.

Leaping down, Hanzo is struck by the fact that they are alone and that McCree found him regardless of how large the facility is. 

“Y’alright, partner?” McCree asks him, twirling Peacekeeper once before reholstering it at his side.

“Your assist was appreciated, McCree-san.” Hanzo bows his head. “Thank you.”

He waits for some kind of contact--that hand on his shoulder again, perhaps. His skin feels suddenly cold without it, like it realized it was missing it the whole time. He imagines the contact and its warmth--

Hanzo is disappointed as McCree laughs and tips his hat.

“What're friends for?” he asks grandly.

_ Piercing the heart _ , Hanzo thinks. The thought sounds a lot like Genji.

“Yes, indeed,” he says out loud, averting his eyes and his deepening scowl. 

They get to the evac and the team cheers their success, but all Hanzo feels is bitter emptiness on the way home. The bitterness fades in the shadow of something much more familiar: loneliness.

**0000**

Somewhere along the lines, McCree calls him Hanzo. It is jarring and shocking and Hanzo isn’t sure where it comes from.

One glance at Genji, who is lounging casually in the rec room they tried to drag Hanzo to for cards, makes it obvious.

_ You’re welcome _ , Genji says with a cheeky tap of his fingers on his visor.

Hanzo is so busy seething, he cannot escape Tracer and McCree’s clutches in time, and he is forced to endure poker.

Somehow, by the third time McCree calls him Hanzo, he has already embraced it. 

**0000**

He sits beside McCree in the mess hall, enduring mediocre and chaotic conversation in the din of meal times, just to listen and sometimes answer McCree’s ever friendly calls for Hanzo’s involvement with the group.

He waits to practice with the gunman in the afternoons, if they were not assigned missions. McCree takes to the friendly rivalry with eagerness and is graceful in his inability to top Hanzo’s score, yet.

He accepts McCree’s offer to play cards with him, Tracer and Reinhardt on Tuesdays. He learns the moves of the game by quietly watching McCree’s movements, often tuning out everything but the raucous laughter coming from the cowboy’s mouth.

He learns McCree’s favorite color is red and that lost his arm ingloriously in an accident. He learns about how McCree had been in the Deadlock gang and there is a strange pull of camaraderie at the knowledge that both men had once been willingly in the midst of crime. Hanzo learns McCree’s time with Overwatch had been shadowed by his time with Blackwatch, but there is always a tender fondness in McCree’s eyes when speaking about “the good old days.”

McCree tells him these things at differing points they are together. Sometimes at the range or interpersonal talks at dinner. Once late at night, where McCree catches him sitting alone on a ledge overlooking Gibraltar. He offers Hanzo a smoke, which Hanzo refuses, and they talk. For a man unused to conversation or conversation partners, Hanzo embraces those moments.

Missions come and go infrequently. When they are assigned on the same one, Hanzo has to force himself to focus on everything beside the sharpshooter in the thick of danger. He nearly misses a target once when his focus slips. 

McCree, if he notices Hanzo’s descent into unacceptable behavior, says nothing. He just smiles and carries on, calling him friend.

All Hanzo can think about is the hand of his shoulder and the frustration over the fact he cannot merely will it back into place.

**0000**

“You do realize,” Genji tells him quietly as they sit on one of the rooftops of Gibraltar in the warmth of the setting sun, “that he thinks you are merely being friendly?”

The cup of tea barely reaches his lips. “What?”

“You expect him to notice the changes in your behavior,” Genji says.

Hanzo stared at his younger brother, daring him with his eyes to continue. Genji does.

“He did not know you before, so how could he know this is extraordinary for you?”

“What is extraordinary?” Hanzo bites out.

“You seeking someone’s attention.” Genji’s visor prevents it showing, but Hanzo knows the little wretch is smiling. “A boyhood infatuation that is a marvel to behold.”

Hanzo kicks him off the roof. Genji expects it, laughs, and leaves him to sulk.

**0000**

Monsters come in all shapes and sizes. Hanzo remembers the first time he saw the dragons at his father’s hands. They were indeed the most terrifying, if not beautiful, things he had ever seen. 

Peru. They respond to a distress beacon from a former Overwatch agent, Mirembe, who Winston says has not responded to the recall. It may be a trap, he warns. Others like McCree and Tracer are adamant it is worth the trip.

It is a trap, though Hanzo isn’t sure if Mirembe was even there at all. Talon is en-masse at the small town they find, the townsfolk already massacred. Hanzo takes to the shadows, striking down as many Talon agents as he can. He is enraged, like the others, at the sight of the dead. All of that, just to draw them out. 

Despite knowing it was a dangerous gamble and expecting trouble, their squad is short on numbers and firepower. Hanzo can hear shouting over the comms, with Winston trying to command at a distance and Reinhardt bellowing on the ground. It's a bad set up and they will be lucky to escape with few casualties of their own before the town is secured.

He gets to the peak of the roof and sees McCree on the ground, by smoldering cars. Peacekeeper is out and pointed, but his left arm is limp at his side.

There is another in front of him. At first, all Hanzo can see is a tall man in a mask--a skull shape, fearsome, if not overly dramatic--and dark clothes. A man dressed for destruction. He is impossibly tall and Hanzo notches an arrow when he realizes the man is looming toward McCree.

“I piss you off in whatever pre-afterlife life you had, pal?” McCree asks, breathless but still his cocksure (a word McCree himself had introduced Hanzo to) self. 

“Oh,” the masked man says, sounding like he is smiling, “you have no idea.”

Before Hanzo can blink, McCree fires once. The masked man then vanishes into a cloud of dark smoke, which glides through the air like a demon without form. McCree curses and fires again. The bullet goes right through the cloud. He pulls the trigger for the third time and there is only a click of an empty chamber.

The masked man--the demon--reforms on top of McCree, kicking him down with a solid thrust of a metal plated boot. McCree slams into the ground and suddenly the demon is sporting two gigantic shotguns.

Hanzo feels the dragons twist and pull at his hands. He doesn’t think. He follows the singing of their aggression and anger, pulling back on his bow, letting them rip through him. He gets the creature in his sights and lets go.

The dragons roar along with his own vicious cry. The demon stops and looks up, startled, before the dragons slam into him. His attempts to shift form are aborted violently as the dragons bite and slash and carve into his body. 

Hanzo is lost to the fury, but launches down to the street. He aims to get McCree’s side and get them both to cover. He has no idea how injured McCree is--

A shotgun blast nearly strikes his leg, destroying the cement under his feet. Hanzo darts back, stunned, to see the demon reforming. The dragons lost their grip. Or perhaps this monster is just sturdier than he looks.

“You!” the demon howls, firing again. 

Hanzo dodges behind a burnt out car and quickly notches another arrow. There are three more shots and the whole car starts to lift with each hit. Hanzo counts each hit and then, in that split second of silence between shots, hauls himself up over the edge of the charred trunk. His arrow flies true, striking the demon in the shoulder with a solid sound beneath the subsequent howl of pain.

Unlike the dragons, Hanzo realizes, this monster feels pain.

He aims to notch another, but suddenly, the demon drops one of his shotguns and shifts his form. The barraging of curses and Spanish are unexpected, but Hanzo watches the specter flee. His arrow falls to the ground, bloodied but unable to follow the demon’s body.

There are still distant explosions, mostly from his side he realizes with minor comfort, but there is a terrible quiet that falls over their part of the street. Hanzo wastes no time, not trusting the demon not to return. He launches over the car and seeks out McCree. The other man is on the ground, but moving and apparently unscathed by the firefight.

And the dragons, Hanzo realizes. Somehow, he is not surprised. 

“We are in need of assistance,” he says, slightly out of breath, over the comms. He gives out their location and waits.

Lúcio announces he’s on the way to help. Hanzo breathes a sigh of relief.

And then, McCree is on his knees, swearing violently. His left arm is sparking from an earlier shotgun blast, it seems.

“Goddamn, Hanzo!” he shouts, grabbing his hat off the sand. “You crazy bastard!”

Hanzo faces him, baffled by the anger. “What?”

McCree, not quite able to stand, glares up at him. “You coulda been hit! That nutcase--you launched right at him!” He scowls. “ _ Arrows _ my tawny ass.  _ Goddamn _ .”

The anger triggers some of his own. Hanzo clenches his fists.

“You could have died!” he snaps.

“So--?!” McCree sputters. He apparently cannot fathom it. “Why’d you do somethin' so dang risky? Back up is there for a reason! You need t'follow protocol, or the whole thing is just gonna go to hell in a handbasket!”

Hanzo is struck stupid by the ignorance. By the utter gall.

McCree is waiting for an answer and all Hanzo can feel, under his sheer disbelief, is a growing and indignant anger.

“ _ You _ ,” he says, between gritted teeth, “are an  _ idiot _ .”

His admonishment stuns McCree but the words bubble up in a wave, riding on that anger. Hanzo stalks toward him, fists clenched to control the shakes.

“You risked your life entering combat with that--that thing,” he spat. “You knew the dangers were unaccountable and you went anyway. Do not lecture me about acting recklessly. You endangered your life for what, pride? A chance to show off?!”

McCree is red with anger of his own. “It ain’t your choice--”

“If I have to choose between risking my life or the one I care for, do you think I would make any other choice?” Hanzo shouts, anger raging through him, coursing with the dragons, who writhe in it, encouraging it. “You think me a monster, like the others? You think I am dishonest? That I am any less than what I offer--to  _ you _ of all people?!”

Hanzo prepares to leave, to get to the evac ship on his own, because he cannot handle this any further without coming to blows.

He is less prepared for the look on McCree’s face, which shatters the anger and leaves the man looking dumbstruck.

“What’d you say?” he asks.

Hanzo freezes. He doesn’t understand the man’s confusion. He tries to recall what he said, not knowing what trigger such a reaction, and he doesn’t see what--

Oh.

Hanzo stares at McCree, fight-or-flight ascending through his limbs. 

_ The one I care for. _

Oh, he is a fool. Not the first time, he realizes just how much McCree is not.

McCree just stares up at him, still wide-eyed and slack-jawed. 

“Holy shit,” he says.

Hanzo knows he must say something, but he cannot.

He turns and begins to walk quickly toward the sound of the other explosions. He can hear Lúcio’s music somewhere, getting closer. 

Behind him, McCree is still struggling to stand up.

“Wait, Hanzo! What did you say?!”

Hanzo doesn’t. He is too busy drowning in embarrassment, anger, and the knowledge that he had possibly destroyed the little comforts he had built.

It is a small miracle when the others arrive and sweep them all up to the evac position.

**0000**

Six hours after landing back at Gibraltar and passing Mercy’s inspection, Hanzo attempts to get ready for sleep. He is interrupted by a buzz from his door. He doesn’t expect anyone, so he opens it warily.

McCree is on his doorstep, looking like a whipped dog.

“I’m an idiot,” he says without preamble. His left arm is in a sling, a temporary fix for the prosthetic.

“Yes,” Hanzo says, his eyes narrowed, “you are.”

“Genji told me--”

“He told you  _ what _ ?”

McCree, oddly enough, is going red under his beard. Hanzo has never seen the unflappable man look so ruffled.

“The practicin' and the dinners and the whole--shucks.” McCree takes off his hat and shoves his fist into it, fumbling.

Hanzo waited, impatiently, mainly because he knew this was of his own making, truly. It is a childish urge to hide from his mistakes that makes him want to shut the door and sleep forever. It is only pride that keeps him still.

“Look, Hanzo,” McCree says, without tripping over his name, which only makes Hanzo feel stranger, “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I feel like a heel. Normally--normally I’m not that dense. But I just thought--I don’t know, you seemed uncomfortable with everythin' around you. I knew it musta been weird bein' here, with bein' back with Genji and everythin' else, so I just wanted to make you feel welcome.”

Hanzo hides his clenched fist beneath his sleeve and lets McCree catch up to his thoughts. The American seems genuinely contrite.

“I guess I overshot it.” McCree fidgets, uncomfortable at his own admissions. “So focused on bein' friends I didn’t even think to look for anythin' else. I had no idea how mean that musta seemed to you. I didn’t mean anythin' by it, pal.”

When he stops speaking, there is a tangible gap between them. Hanzo battles with his own gripping embarrassment. He also deals with the slow comprehension that dawns throughout McCree’s apology.

Many things are clear.

“You are a fool,” he says. “But so am I.”

It is painful to admit, but perhaps it is his exhaustion that allows the words to come so easily.

“I cannot blame you for things I was not direct with,” he says, while McCree seems stunned. “There is no need for you to apologize, McCree-san.”

He realizes then his mistake. Genji was right. McCree only knew him as he acted now. Hanzo had never been one for indirectness, but here, it was his lack of forwardness that caused much of his own distress. He assumed too much of McCree and it was not McCree’s fault. 

Realizing this, Hanzo abruptly felt a lot lighter. Honesty is a cure for both of them, he hopes.

“I do not wish to burden you with my feelings. Unreciprocated or not, it is my responsibility to share them if I had any desire to see them returned.” He offers the other man a bow of his head. “I apologize for my indirectness.”

“You don’t have to apologize!” McCree suddenly says, a bit too loudly. He scowls. “And don’t put words in my mouth, Shimada.”

Hanzo blinks. “What?”

“I never said I didn’t, uh, reciprocate,” McCree says, his irritation abruptly melting into an embarrassed admission in mid-sentence. 

It is not what he expects. Hanzo is surprised enough that the defensiveness he would normally throw up is only marginally there. McCree looks like he is embarrassed, but doesn’t retract what he said.

“Oh?” is about all Hanzo can manage.

“I mean, uh, it’s kinda sudden. On my end.” McCree tugs at his dirt-covered serape with his right hand. “But that ain’t a no.”

Hanzo stares at him.

“It is not?” he asks. He sounds slow to his own ears.

“No,” McCree says, face going pink and not from anger. He rambles. “It’s just a surprise. You’re a great guy. Helluva shot and don’t think I haven’t noticed your sense of humor. I can’t say it’s a letdown to know you like me. It’s pretty damn flatterin', t’be honest.”

Even after becoming more skilled at following McCree’s drawn out explanations, the words are difficult to follow. Hanzo chooses to remain silent, watching the cowboy with vague wariness--and a trepidation that’s light on his chest.

“So, uh,” McCree says, fumbling.

Hanzo holds his breath.

“Can I come in?” McCree asks, expression still apologetic with the same kind of  _ Jesse McCree _ hopefulness that is something Hanzo has come to expect.

It takes him considerable less effort to convince himself that McCree is sincere. It is still a struggle to convince himself that it is something he deserves. That sense of struggle, however, abruptly weakens.

Hanzo steps to the side, leaving the choice to enter up to him.

To his quiet astonishment, he isn't surprised when McCree does.

**end**  

**Author's Note:**

> A/Ns:  
> -I had the worst time trying to write McCree. I didn’t want to write his dialogue in a way that caricatured him. But then I realized who he was and that is is a walking caricature, so uh, yeah. I tried. :c  
> -I feel like I missed the mark for Hanzo too. Augh.  
> -I messed around with the lore chronology a bit too, since I’m still new to the whole fandom. Sorry for that too!


End file.
